


The Tower

by flamewarrior



Series: The kicked puppy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-27
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/flamewarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has a mission, one that will prove his worth. It doesn't turn out as he'd expected. Retelling of some parts of HBP (and a bit more) from Draco's PoV.<br/>Based mainly on a 'creative process' Tarot reading generated at <a href="http://www.facade.com/tarot/">Facade</a> using the 'Curious Tarot', read in relation to Draco's mission, which of course ended in defeat at the top of a tower; yeah, I went for the obvious :-P. Meanings for cards taken from the same site and placed as epigraphs within the story. (Not all the meanings quoted are reflected in the story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tower

Desire

_Mastery over word, mind, and matter. The ability to turn ideas into actions, handle problems, and control one's life. The initiation of new projects, great works, or a new way of life. Eloquent and moving communication. Arcane and eldritch technologies._

Draco sat on his hands through the entire duration of the trip into London. He was so full of energy he thought he might burst. This year he would shine in his own right, the head of the Malfoy household, acknowledged as a man by all who really mattered.

Exceptionally talented, his Aunt Bella had called him, a great hope for the next generation of the cause. At last someone he could truly respect had recognised him for his talents. She was a real Death Eater heroine, a woman who had stood before the Wizengamot and proudly pronounced all she had done to protect true Wizardry. Unlike some others. It was on Aunt Bella's recommendation that the Dark Lord had given him this assignment: a chance to prove himself, to demonstrate he was ready to be taken into the inner court of the Death Eaters.

Occasionally, he looked across to his mother sitting beside him, her face pinched, a slight furrow in her brow. He would look away quickly through the window, irritated by her concern. What did she think she needed to worry about? They were Malfoys; they were Blacks. Yes, father had made mistakes but he, Draco, would not.

\--------------------------

Potter's face, reflected in the mirror at Madam Malkin's, made Draco's blood boil. And joy of joys, the Mudblood and the pauper were with him too. He trembled with remembered humiliation, quickly pushing away all thought of the journey on the Hogwarts Express earlier in the summer.

He found the exchange of insults and threats tiresome and frustrating when all he wanted to do was to let hexes fly. His anger finally pushing through to find expression when Madam Malkin pricked his arm with her pins. Once he had pushed his way past the three Gryffindors, he carried on at speed up Diagon Alley, driven by the tumult of his emotions.

As he passed Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, his conscience pricked him and he looked back up the alley for his mother, but as he did so his eye was caught by the window display. Not the U-No-Poo (how ridiculous and childish), not the garish pink products (were girls all so vacuous?), but there, through the other window, in a large leather bucket.

Draco smiled to himself, his mother forgotten. He looked quickly around the street. All clear. He stepped into the shop and glanced about; there were only a few children from lower years and their parents in here. Nothing to concern him. His intention was to buy what he had come in for and go, but as he turned from the bucket, three edible Dark Marks in his hand, he noticed a more sombre display near the back of the shop.

He looked around again, not turning his head. There was still no-one present that he need worry about. In four long strides he reached the darker recesses of the shop and studied the products there. Protective hats, Metamorph medals, Peruvian Darkness Powder. A veritable treasure trove. Draco's breath whistled gently between his teeth. He was still for a moment, cataloguing the products in his mind, making decisions. Then he stretched out his hand.

\--------------------------

 

Hope

_Clarity, control and peace in troublesome times. Increased psychic abilities. Temptations, small problems and minor setbacks overcome. The dawning of a new day._

Finally, finally he had given his mother the slip again. God bless Mrs Prattling Parkinson. He moved with determination, feeling collected and confident, ignoring the small groups of harried-looking shoppers. He ducked into a narrow alleyway and pulled an edible Dark Mark from his pocket, unshrinking it and looking at it, laid out on the palm of his left hand. He quickly changed its colour to opaque, matt black. Pulling up his left sleeve, he spread it out carefully on the inside of his left forearm, smoothing it down until it shaped itself perfectly to his flesh. A simple Sticking Charm and he was ready. He took a moment to look up and down Diagon Alley before striding up, past the joke shop again, and on to Knockturn Alley.

Borgin and Burkes was a storehouse of childhood memory, but Draco had no time for nostalgia on this visit. So much that he needed was here. He spent a moment collecting himself before pushing through the door, envisioning the outcome he hoped for: the Malfoy name and line restored in power and prestige, the only real barrier to Dark Lord's rise destroyed. Then he stepped into the shop and began the first step on his road towards success.

He was worried for a moment that Borgin would refuse his demands, and amused at how quickly the shopkeeper fell into line when he showed his left forearm and mentioned that disgusting werewolf. He was very proud of himself for not shuddering as he did so. If only his father could have seen him he would have been proud too.

Draco wasted no more time after placing his order but strode back out into Knockturn Alley. Only a few more days with the whimpering mess his mother had become, then his real work on this mission could begin.

\--------------------------

 

Failure

_Being confused and led astray from the true path. Spiritual deception. Overzealous and shallow-minded pursuit of the esoteric. Insecurity, conceit and self-destructiveness. The forces of nature unleashed._

Everything had been fine until Draco went home for Christmas. He had been close, so close, with that necklace until someone had interfered with Katie on her way back to the school. He'd heard a rumour it was Potter, and wouldn't that just be typical. Everywhere he turned lately there was Potter's stupid face. But that was the least of his worries now. Draco had been praying since Twelfth Night, praying to every god whose name he'd ever heard, that nothing would get in the way of the mead reaching Dumbledore, nor in the way of Dumbledore drinking it.

Since he'd come back to school after the Christmas vac, he found that every so often he had to clutch the sides of his chair or the sleeves of his robe and concentrate very hard on breathing. In those moments it felt as though he was dying, as though the world was ending, as though his insides were turning inside out. The first few times it happened he'd thought it was the Dark Lord, reminding him of the forfeit, so recently revealed, for failing in his task. Then Greg had given one of his rare - and long - soliloquies, this time on the topic of his mother and how she'd been having panic attacks since last June. He went into great detail, which, Draco thought, was just as well in the circumstance.

After Weasley had got the mead instead of Dumbledore, Draco started using the _Mens Quietus_ Charm when he felt anxiety begin to take him, but it never lasted long enough and he couldn't risk using it more than once a week; he still needed to be able to _think_. The Vanishing Cabinet, his first idea and the only one he had left, would not respond, whatever he did to it. It was all he could think about, all that stood between him and his family's destruction. He found himself needing more and more time alone just to keep himself under control.

The girls' loos where Moaning Myrtle sat moping were disgusting, but they were empty of staff and of other students. It was safe there, it was somewhere he could stop holding himself together and just let go. Myrtle was a surprisingly good listener. Draco felt stupid, pouring out all his problems to a ghost, blubbing like a first year girl among the dripping taps, but it was the only solace he had left. He didn't trust anyone anymore. He'd even given up boasting, along with sleeping and eating.

Now he stood half bent over a sink, holding on to it for dear life, face flushed and puffy from crying. He was shaking; he felt sick to his stomach. Through his hiccuping sobs, he could barely hear Myrtle's attempts at comfort. He looked up to answer her and a movement in the mirror before him caught his eye. Spinning around, he saw Potter, wand out. Draco felt as though his whole body was consumed with fire, as though a deluge was roaring in his ears. Filled with rage, he cast the first curse that came to him, one that would hurt Potter, for his father, for his mother and for himself. But before he could finish casting it, Potter cast a spell in return that Draco had never heard before - something like 'always separate' - and the impact of it jolted him backwards.

He felt warmth and moisture on his face and chest, and looked down. He registered vaguely that Myrtle was screaming as he saw the slashes across his front, realised what they were as the pain began. He felt dizzy and weak, staggering backwards and falling onto the damp, dirty floor. His mind was empty as dancing patterns covered his eyes and he sank out of consciousness.

\--------------------------

 

Success

_The path of destiny. Karma on a grand scale. An unexpected turn of good fortune. A link in the chain of events. Success, luck, and happiness._

It was while Draco was recovering from Potter's attack that he had his epiphany. He became anxious to leave the hospital wing, although he'd got his first proper sleep in months during his stay. The potions Madam Pomfrey had given him were dulling his thoughts, but he could see the solution, in amongst all the muddle, so clearly he could almost taste it. Pomfrey was very reluctant to let him go. She warned him he would have scars, which he knew was not true. Though he didn't trust Snape to 'help' with his mission, Draco did trust his head of house with potions and spells. Draco would not scar and he did not want to be kept under the close scrutiny that Pomfrey employed any longer than absolutely necessary.

His first action on leaving the hospital wing was to go straight to the Room of Requirement. Lookout or no lookout, this was too important to wait. He walked up and down in the corridor, the image of what he needed clear and sharp in his mind's eye. Draco opened the door almost before it had finished appearing and shut it quickly behind him. Yes. There it was, by the Vanishing Cabinet, the tray of components and tools that he needed, set out neatly on a delicate side table made of cherry wood with mother of pearl and ebony inlay. Next to the tray was another, bearing a steaming plate of food. Draco snorted. The Room, it seemed, had joined Pomfrey and Snape in their busy-bodying. Draco ignored the food, focusing himself entirely on the Cabinet and what he knew now that he had to do.

\--------------------------

Six hours later, the plate of food still sat, steaming and untouched on the table, but the tray of tools was no longer arrayed neatly beside it. Draco was almost ready to weep again he was so frustrated. He had no doubt, no doubt at all that his thinking was correct this time. He threw the set of skeleton keys down on the floor, letting out a shout of rage. He rubbed his hands distractedly over his face. He was so _close_. He hit his forehead against the Cabinet's tall side. He did it again, harder. He sighed. That wasn't going to help.

He scratched at the backs of his forearms, uncovered where he had rolled up the sleeves of his robe. He felt dizzy. He wondered, vaguely, what the time was. A lullaby in his mother's reedy voice lilted across his mind. Draco replaced the keys and other tools on the tray. It was time to get some sleep. He _would_ make that damned Cabinet work. But not tonight.

\--------------------------

It had taken only another three weeks for Draco to complete his repair of the Vanishing Cabinet and his spirits were high. He had got a message out to Aunt Bella and she had replied with a date and a time. Every time he thought about it he felt a thrill of triumph. He'd even made up with Pansy so that he could celebrate properly. Only once though; her curiosity, in the afterglow, about his change of mood was both annoying and dangerous. But now the day was here and Draco felt as if his whole body was vibrating, thrumming. This was it, his moment. His grin was feral, shining back at him out of the mirror in his hand. Tonight.

\--------------------------

 

Action

_A person gifted with both keen logic and natural intuition, giving them uncanny powers of perception and insight. One who easily sees the weakness in any argument, and savages friend and foe alike with biting sarcasm. Dry and vicious wit covering a hollow sense of isolation and dissatisfaction with life._

Draco's wrist shook as he held the Hand of Glory high above his head. He had to get out of here, he had to get away, do his job and get away. He swallowed, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He ran, stumbling on every other footfall, back to the tower where the Dark Mark hung, leering out at the sky. Dumbledore must be there by now.

Draco whimpered in the back of his throat. Away from the effects of the Darkness Powder now, he discarded the Hand of Glory, glad to have the clammy feel of it away from him. He raced up the stairs three at a time, more sure-footed now. Soon, soon it would be over, Mother would be safe, and he could wake from the sick nightmare his life had become.

He reached the top of the stairs and pushed on into the tower room. There was Dumbledore, slumped and gasping against the far wall covered in sickly, green light from the Dark Mark. Draco paused for a moment, taken aback. He gulped and pushed on. He stood over the old man. This wasn't how he'd imagined it. He hadn't thought he'd be facing a helpless cripple. Dumbledore was talking to him. Was he playing for time? The conversation didn't make any sense, but at least it kept him from having to...

Draco had never killed anyone, he didn't want to kill anyone. He wanted a comfortable, safe, happy life, the kind of life he'd had before he came to school, before the Dark Lord had returned, before his mother's migraines and the constant, ever-deepening line between his father's eyebrows.

What was that Dumbledore was saying? Draco brought his attention back to the conversation, to Dumbledore's words. His hands shook. Oh God, the thought of being safe, of knowing his mother was _safe_. In that moment, Draco couldn't give a shit about pride, not his own, not his family's. Some things were more important even than that.

He felt his hand slipping. He swallowed, tried to take in breath, enough to speak, enough to say yes.

Then there were heavy footfalls on stone and he was surrounded by Death Eaters. He'd forgotten about them. He wasn't thinking straight. Shit, what was Greyback doing here? Draco cringed back from the stench of him, from that gleaming eye. He'd fucked up all over again, he'd missed his chance. He looked down at Dumbledore as one of the men taunted at him to finish the job. He'd have to do it, now. His wand hand was shaking so badly he thought he'd have to hold himself by the wrist to keep it steady.

Draco couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He couldn't focus on Dumbledore because everything around him was spinning. His thinking slowed down. Everything slowed down, as if he were underwater and the green light came from sea slime at the very bottom of the ocean. He vaguely registered the presence of another body in the room, another voice. Draco looked to his side and saw a hooked nose over a mouth contorted around the two words Draco had been trying to say, had been meant to say. More green. He looked at Dumbledore's face just before his body was sent flying over the crenellations. What a strange expression he saw there, almost as if Dumbledore was satisfied.

Then Draco felt himself dragged, pushed, a voice shouting into his face. He came to his senses in a shock of movement, and ran.

\--------------------------

 

Destruction

_Unexpected upheaval leading to a dramatic change in life. Catastrophe. An unwanted change in lifestyle. Disturbing enlightenment. Betrayal or trauma leading to mental, emotional and spiritual breakdown, which can become breakthrough with humility and acceptance._

Draco runs past the groundskeeper's hut as a rogue wand-blast set it ablaze. He flinches in mid-stride, stumbling and picking himself up again, not stopping to check for bruises or wounds. He doesn't stop as the shouting and fighting get nearer, only ducks down as close to the earth as he can get. When he reaches the gates, he keeps on running until he stumbles and doesn't have the strength to rise.

A strong hand lifts him up and lank strands of hair brush his face as the squeeze and pop of Apparition take him away. He doesn't know where he is, only that Snape is still gripping his arm and pulling him along beside a watercourse. It stinks and the ground is covered with litter. Muggle litter. Where is this place?

Draco keeps stumbling, but Snape takes no notice, just drags him and keeps going until Draco finds his feet again on the crumbling concrete. It's not long until Draco is being pushed through a door into a dingy hallway and on into a dining room so small there's hardly space for Snape to pull a chair out from the table and push him into it. Snape disappears through another door. There is a noise of hinges and clattering jars, then he returns, face still bunched in on itself, with a mug.

He places the mug on the table before Draco and stands over him with folded arms. Draco forces himself to move his arms, to wrap weak fingers around the mug. It is short and squat, with a dirty yellow glaze that has several chips around the rim. The handle is broken. Draco looks inside at the potion, steaming gently although the mug is cold to his touch.

He tries to lift the mug, but it is too heavy. A drop of liquid slops onto the table and Draco stares at it. He lets his arms drop and his face go slack. But Snape has lifted the mug for him, holding it close to his lips and Draco finds he has the strength to guide the mug to his own mouth. As soon as the acrid potion is all gone, Draco lets his fingers drop from the base of the mug and Snape takes it back through the door with him.

When Snape comes back into the room, Draco is not asleep, but nor is he awake. He is in a strange dream world, cut adrift without an anchor and drifting aimlessly over the waves. Snape's face bobs before his eyes until the potion takes hold of him more closely. Then he finds he can look at Snape's face and focus on it. He feels nothing as Snape speaks to him. There is a strange calm within him. The part of him which observes all of this knows it cannot last.

When Draco wakes the next morning and remembers Snape's words and Dumbledore's words and what he must now do, he knows that part of him was right.

\--------------------------

 

Gift

_An exciting and reckless leader who inspires others to irresponsible acts. An artist whose depraved love of chaos causes him to take hold of destructive ideas and make them appealing to the masses. One who is charismatic and intimidating, using demonstrations of his own skill to dupe others into accepting responsibilities beyond their ability. A dashing and magnetic personality, appearing and disappearing with great suddenness, and leaving upheaval in his wake._

Draco is in his nightmare again. He is standing in front of a mirror, looking at his own naked torso. The marks of bites and scratches cover it. He wants to howl in his grief and his anger, but all that emerges from his half-open mouth is the kind of whimper a puppy makes when it has been beaten by the hand which always before had given it food and comfort.

He had been relieved, at first, that the Dark Lord had not killed him on sight. His mother, he knew, was safe. For now. At least, she wasn't dead. Draco enabling Dumbledore to be killed had been enough to spare her. But failing to carry out express instructions had still merited punishment. The Dark Lord had made that clear in his brief visit.

Draco's hands touch the scars on his body as his gaze follows them in the mirror. He looks up into his own eyes, taking in the grey circles under them, the red rims around them, the creases at their corners and above their brows. No glorious victory, no Malfoy honour. Only one duped and sullied boy. He watches tears make their way over his cheeks, dripping from his chin unchecked.

Draco is in his nightmare again, and he is awake.

**Author's Note:**

> **The reading and its relationship to the sections of the story**
> 
> Order slightly amended. I added The Tower to the reading under my own invented position of 'Execution' - execution within the context of the story having a double meaning, but within the context of the reading simply meaning the carrying out of the creative impulse.
> 
> The significator: The Magician (Desire)
> 
> The creative force behind the project: The Moon, reversed (Hope)
> 
> Emotion: The High Priestess, reversed (Failure)
> 
> Imagination: Wheel of Fortune (Success)
> 
> Thought: Queen of Swords, reversed (Action)
> 
> Execution: The Tower (Destruction)
> 
> Manifestation: King of Wands, reversed (Gift)


End file.
